


Love Rekindled

by magicalmagic



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Bard, Bard is a complete and utter sap, Bard puts his feelings into paint, CEO thranduil, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor (?) character death- Thranduil's wife and Bard's wife are dead, So is Thranduil but he's better at hiding it, Thranduil and Bard: Sassy otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalmagic/pseuds/magicalmagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Even though there were several groups talking around his paintings, there was one man that stood out from everyone else. The man was planted in front of ‘Love Ablaze,’ the crowd parted around him like the sun surrounded by stars. He was wearing a sharp suit, his long blond hair tucked into a low ponytail. His back was ramrod straight, his hands clenched into fists. Bard stepped next to the man, keeping his eyes on the painting the other was studying so intensely. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>‘Love Ablaze’ was Bard’s saddest painting. He painted it after Sophia’s death, the grief threatening to drown him as he poured his emotions onto canvas. Despair was etched into every line, and he could almost pinpoint the places where he had to smooth over tear tracks with a fresh layer of paint. It always brought back the bone deep anguish of that time, that at this point was more muted pangs of sadness when he smelled her perfume, or waking up to empty sheets next to him. That was why it was one of the few paintings Bard was actually eager to let go.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bard paints Thranduil’s back and contemplates the past, present, and future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Rekindled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inheritanceofgeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritanceofgeek/gifts).



Bard set up his paint jars before he carefully sat on Thranduil’s lower back, gazing at his canvas. He smiled fondly at the freckles dusting Thranduil’s shoulders and upper back, and his eyes shifted up the elegant neck to Thranduil’s hair. It was bound in a ponytail and thrown over his shoulder, splaying onto the sheets. When Bard suggested the idea of painting Thranduil’s back, he complained endlessly how paint could get into his hair. Not until Bard promised to keep a bowl of water and paper towels on hand in case of paint splatters did he relent. 

Now, braced on his lover’s back, he had the juvenile urge to lift up his paint brush and smear the dark black onto the back of Thranduil’s head. He felt laughter bubble up in his stomach, imagining Thranduil’s unholy shriek, but tapped it down, instead trying to map out exactly what he wanted to do. 

“Are you going to paint me, or are we going to do something much more entertaining with you straddling me?” Thranduil’s dry voice jostled Bard out of his thoughts, and he let out a laugh before humming thoughtfully.

“So impatient, dear. Clearly you don’t know how long this’ll take,” Bard said, running his hand soothingly down Thranduil’s warm back, before admitting, “Might be an hour or two.” Thranduil let out an exasperated huff.

“Well, never say I don’t love you then,” Thranduil declared melodramatically before pulling his pillow towards him. Bard felt a warm contentment filling his heart, like golden sunshine pooling around his insides. Maybe one day he would get used to Thranduil saying ‘I love you,’ but for now he treasured each time. Bard watched as Thranduil turned his face to the side, resting his head on top of his pillow and settled his arms against his sides. 

He bent down and placed a light kiss in between Thranduil’s shoulder blades. “I love you too,” he whispered into the other man's skin. Bard sat back up and turned towards his paints. His paintbrush rested in the black paint jar, and he swirled it around before scrapping it on the sides to get rid of the excess paint. The brush hovered over Thranduil’s back, and Bard bit down on his lip, unsure. He’s never painted on skin before. What if it looked like a mess? What if the colors ran together and it looked horrible and Thranduil hated it and-

“Bard, stop worrying already.” Bard’s head snapped up from where he was intensely glaring at the brush. Thranduil continued, “If it’s your work, I will love it no matter how it turns out. Now paint, you ridiculous man.” With that, Thranduil closed his eyes.

The painter let out a deep breath, trying to push out his anxiety and jittery nerves. His love always seemed to know what to say to calm him down. He needed to get into his artist headspace, and not obsess over details. Bard reached over and picked up his ipod with his left hand, and started up his art playlist. 

“Ugh, I hate Mozart,” Thranduil mumbled into the pillow. Bard rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, well, not all of us are uppity, stuck up music prudes.” He could already sense Thranduil preparing to go over an argument they’ve had many times before about classical composers, so he continued, “Now shush. I need to paint, and Mozart helps me focus.” 

The blond smirked. “Beethoven's still better.”

Bard barely bit back a retort on the tip of his tongue, choosing instead to hum along to ‘Concerto No. 24’ as he sorted through his paints that he would need. Bard’s talent in painting has always been centered around sweeping landscapes instead of people. Tilda could probably draw people better than him, he thought sheepishly.

Not that he didn’t try, of course. But the last time he tried to draw a portrait of Thranduil? Well, his hair turned into a waterfall and his eyes were transformed into bluejays, all frantically done to cover the mess that was made on the canvas. When Thranduil grumpily complained and asked about why Bard made him sit there for a couple of hours for no reason, Bard turned red and fled, muttering something about how Thranduil was his inspiration for painting to cover his tracks. 

Not that Thranduil wasn’t an inspiration- honestly, he was more of a distraction. Thranduil loved finding new ways to drag Bard away from his paintings, especially when he lost track of time, spending hours repeating soothing brushstrokes, slowly crafting a lush forest underneath his fingertips. Only to look up and see Thranduil- well, it was probably best not to dwell on those thoughts, especially when he had a painting to start. 

Bard picked up the paintbrush again, now with his paints organized in front of him, and dipped it back into the black jar. He held his left hand under it as he lifted it out of the jar and over to Thranduil’s back. Dammit, he should have changed the sheets… Whelp. Too late now. At least it’s washable. It’s not the first time he ruined sheets or clothes with paint. 

Bard carefully painted a black stripe between his partner’s shoulder blades. Thranduil shifted, obviously surprised at the cold paint on his warm back, but settled down as he continued to add layers of black. Bard began the first layer of colors, blending blue into black with his fingertips and brushes. He couldn't help but feel his mind drift away as he fell into the calming pattern of creating colors. The smell of paint, Thranduil’s ponytail, and his old suit thrown over a chair across the room took him back to a little over two years ago…

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The first time Bard met Thranduil, it was the opening night of his new exhibit in an art gallery in upstate New York. The gallery was set in an old ballroom, with gorgeous high ceilings and light bouncing off the diamond chandelier hanging in the middle of the room. The men and women wore elegant outfits, delicate glasses of champagne held in their gloved hands as they perused the room, staring at the art and chattering softly in small groups. Bard felt out of place as he watched from a corner of the room, with his shabby suit and scuffed shoes. His manager told him to buy a tailored suit for the event, but Bard didn’t see the point of blowing so much money over an outfit he would only wear a handful of times. Now he understood. 

Sofia would have loved this, Bard thought, his heart constricting in his chest. She lived for socializing, getting dressed up, always knowing what to say and how to break the ice. His other half. It was almost too easy to fall deeply in love with her, the woman who always believed and supported him. Sofia would be so proud of him, that he was even standing in an actual art gallery, he knew it deep in his bones. They met when he was still selling art on the sidewalk, making barely enough to get by. She knew him when he was at his lowest, but she still chose him. The epitome of a starving artist, but that did not stop Sofia from giving him a chance. And eventually falling for him. 

Bard was startled out of his thoughts when his eyes landed on his manager rumbling towards him. John Masters. A fat, slimy bastard of a man. And even though they both hated each other, Bard had to admit that Masters had connections that slowly worked Bard into the public’s eyes as a new, aspiring artist. And gave him the chance to sell his paintings at this fancy high end gallery. His manager stopped in front of him, his face a permanent shade of red from, most likely, repressed rage at having to give instructions to his painters instead of happily eating his way through the buffet. 

“Potential buyer,” Masters pointed towards the other end of the room, where Bard’s paintings were on display. His voice sounded more like a booming bear growl than a normal human being, even though he was trying to whisper. “So stop sulking in the corner and go talk to him!” 

_Piss off_ , Bard wanted to say, his gut reaction to dealing with Masters, but he knew it was for the best that he mingled with customers. So he held his tongue and nodded, and began to weave his way through the people mingling on the floor. He felt Masters’ eyes on his back, but tried to mentally shrug it off. Bard passed Alfrid’s abstract art, Smaug’s vivid paintings of dragons burning knights alive, and a couple of other artists’ works he didn’t recognize. Once he reached his own paintings, he tried to spot the ‘potential buyer’ Masters pointed at. He glanced over his paintings that hung over the wall, a proud smile tugging at his mouth despite his anxiety. His landscape paintings were each so large, it wasn’t surprising to Bard that they took up the entire back wall. Bard dabbled in impressionism, but realism was what he was truly skilled at. With each painting, he tried to make it so real that the viewer would be transported to another place, a land he created with hours upon hours of hard work. 

Even though there were several groups talking around his paintings, there was one man that stood out from everyone else. The man was planted in front of ‘Love Ablaze,’ the crowd parted around him like the sun surrounded by stars. He was wearing a sharp suit, his long blond hair tucked into a low ponytail. His back was ramrod straight, his hands clenched into fists. Bard stepped next to the man, keeping his eyes on the painting the other was studying so intensely. 

‘Love Ablaze’ was Bard’s saddest painting. He painted it after Sophia’s death, the grief threatening to drown him as he poured his emotions onto canvas. Despair was etched into every line, and he could almost pinpoint the places where he had to smooth over tear tracks with a fresh layer of paint. It always brought back the bone deep anguish of that time, that at this point was more muted pangs of sadness when he smelled her perfume, or waking up to empty sheets next to him. That was why it was one of the few paintings Bard was actually eager to let go.

It was the aftermath of a forest fire. The trees were stained black with soot, crumbling ruins of what they once were, stripped of their magnificent branches. Ash covered the ground and floated in the air, tinging the forest with soft grey. Bard remembered feeling like he was tasting ash in the back of his throat at Sophia’s funeral, and tried to capture it in the piece. There was no green to be seen, miles of desolate wasteland. No hope, no animals in sight; the forest had a still and oppressive silence. The sky was dark with clouds and smoke, blocking out the sun. It was the only painting without color in Bard’s display. 

The silence lasted for a couple of minutes, Bard unsure if he should break it or wait for the other man to speak. Their shoulders were only a couple inches away from each other, but the other man didn’t move away or look at him, instead continuing to stare at the painting. He wondered what the other man was thinking, if he also experienced loss. The stranger ended up making his decision either way when he finally opened his mouth to speak.

“You’re the painter, I assume? Bard Bowman.” His voice was deep and smooth, but apparently his question wasn’t enough to draw his eyes away from the painting. Bard felt an intense need- _I want this man to look at me as intensely as he looks at my art,_ he thought, then wondered why it was such a strong urge.

“Ah, yes, I- I am,” Bard stammered, realizing he was caught up in staring at the man and the pause grew uncomfortably long. “How did you know? I haven’t see you before…” 

“You’re one of the few people here with a name tag, and it matches the BB in the corner of these paintings. Not a large leap,” the man said dryly, finally turning his head and looking at Bard. And wow- gorgeous eyes, striking features. He was beautiful in a way that reminded Bard of a carved greek statue, delicate and strong all in one.

“Well, it’s hard to tell when you haven’t looked at me since you walked over here,” Bard shot back, “Are my paintings just that good, or do you have some sort of owl-ly eyesight?” The other man’s lip twitched higher, as if he was holding back a laugh. 

“Why not both?” They held each other’s gaze for a couple of seconds, before Bard broke away and hummed in response, wishing he could nudge the other in good humor. But the other man seemed to have a more icy, deliberately separate boundaries, so he glanced back at the other people examining his paintings. 

“Good answer. And I couldn’t help notice that you’re drawn to this painting in particular. Usually people enjoy my more colorful landscapes. May I ask why?” Bard prodded, again wondering if he had something in common with a man wearing a suit that was probably worth half of his gallery. The other man clenched his jaw, as if he was surprised that someone dared to ask about his personal life.

“Why don’t you tell me your inspiration for painting it first?” 

Bard paused, uncertain if he wanted to unload his emotional mess on an unsuspecting stranger. He wasn’t one to lie. The man seemed to take his silence for an answer, and turned back to the painting, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. He probably meant to look stoney, impenetrable, but planting himself in front of ‘Love Ablaze,’ to Bard at least, made him just seem lonely. And sad. Just like Bard was, and still is, when he reminisces about Sophia. He wanted to know if this man had his own Sophia, once upon a time.

“Okay,” Bard offered, watching the man jump in surprise when he broke the silence. “But you have to tell me your name first, since we’re doing this on even ground.” The man furrowed his, in Bard’s opinion, rather magnificent eyebrows as he studied him. Bard flushed and adjusted his shabby suit’s sleeve, mentally cursing his reluctance to buy a tailored suit for probably the fifth time in the past hour. 

The man must have approved in whatever he saw in Bard, because he nodded and said, “It’s Thranduil. Thranduil Rex.” King Thranduil. Almost as bad as Bard Bowman, he thought, and held back a quip about obscure and strange names. The name suited him, with his elegant suit and long silky hair.

Bard turned back to the painting, remembering the day when his life changed for the worst. “I was married to the most beautiful woman in the world. Sophia. A couple years ago,” Five years and six months. Bard would never forget that summer heat, the day his wife was taken from him. “We went out for lunch, just the two of us, to celebrate Sophia’s promotion at work. That was rare, with three kids at home, so it was nice to talk without their yelling in the back. I remember looking at her, thinking about how lucky I was to have such an incredible wife. I never even saw the car coming.” 

Old pain rose up in his chest, bitterness and rage and grief. “Drunk driver. Sophia was in the drivers seat, and died on impact.” Nights thinking, it should have been me. Why wasn’t it me? Bard took a shuddery breath. “It was so hard, after she died. Taking care of the kids, being their rock when it felt like everything good burned on the inside, and the only thing left was ash.” He dragged his eyes away from the painting and looked at Thranduil. His eyes were sad, as if a shadow passed across his face. Bard wondered what made those eyes look so ancient and weary, and if that’s what Bard would see if he looked in the mirror after another nightmare. “That was my inspiration for this piece. The aftermath of losing her.” 

Silence came back, but not a necessarily uncomfortable one, as he waited for Thranduil to speak. The other man gave off the air of an untrusting and private person, but that didn’t stop Bard from wanting to break past the barrier he built around himself. That’s probably why he told Thranduil about his painful past, despite only knowing him for a few minutes, Bard thought to himself ruefully. He never could resist a mystery.

“My late wife, Es-” Thranduil paused, as if speaking her name pained him. He turned back to the painting. “Estella Greenleaf. She was my everything, next to my son. My best friend, my partner, the love of my life.” His hands were curled back into fists, and seemed to shake a little. “Lung cancer. She never even touched a cigarette in her life, but her father was a smoker.” He spoke as if every word pained him to get out. “I did _everything,_ anything I could to save her. But in the end she just… wasted away. And she was gone, and I was…” Thranduil gestured to the painting, letting out an empty laugh. 

They stood there, shared grief between them, staring at 'Love Ablaze.' Bard chose to push his feelings down and interrupt the quiet when it stretched for too long. 

“You know, I’d say something inspirational about new beginnings or fire cleansing the forest or something, but I’ve never been good at that crap, it’s not true, and I doubt you’d appreciate it.”

“I’d probably punch you in the face.” Thranduil’s mouth tugged up into a watery smile, and he seemed to appreciate the change in topic by the way his hands unclenched. 

“I’d punch myself in the face!” Bard joked, and a light hearted air settled around them. They shared photos of their children, his small pictures tucked into his wallet and Thranduil’s phone background, and Bard managed to make Thranduil laugh when he shared a story about how one of his coworkers fell into a vat of gold paint. 

“Actually, my manager sent me over here to convince you to buy this painting,” Bard said in a conspiratorial air, leaning towards the other man. 

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, an unsurprised smile on his face. “Oh?” 

“But I don’t think I made a deal. I made something even better.” 

“What?” His eyes were teasing and amused, and Bard looked back at him and put sincerity into his voice. 

“A friend.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

They've come so far since then, Bard thought as he blended a few drops of white into the blue paint cup. 

When their relationship started out, it was more of a casual friendship than anything, despite their confessions to each other. They’d meet once a week at a Starbucks near Thranduil’s work building and chat about jobs and swap stories about their kids. Bard learned all about Legolas’s passion for archery, how Thranduil suspects Legolas is ‘involved’ with a nephew of his company’s rival CEO, and that he gave his father mini heart attacks when he posts his parkour videos of him and Aragorn on Facebook. Bard told him all the details of Sigrid’s cute crush on Fili and how she passionately denies it every time Bard teases her, Bain’s angsty teenage phase, and Tilda’s insatiable curiosity with bugs that secretly creeps her father out whenever she shoves a new ‘present’ in Bard’s face.

But soon the conversations started lingering, and they started texting each other occasionally, and Bard wasn’t blind, okay? Thranduil was one of the hottest men he’s ever met, he wasn’t blind. But he didn’t want to ruin one of the best friendships he’s had. Thranduil was as sassy as he was, and they bounced off each other with ease of people who’ve known each other for years despite only meeting two months ago, and Bard laughed more than he did in a long, long time. He also had a feeling that he was one of few people Thranduil was actually comfortable with. Once, Bard picked him up at his office, and Thranduil acted ice cold and stonily professional to all his employees, even his COO, and only truly relaxed once they were in line for their coffee. Bard at least had people he could chat to about art and talk art supplies with. But even then, Bard knew his friendship was deeper with Thranduil. 

Everything changed when Thranduil hesitantly asked Bard to pick up Legolas from his archery practice because his meeting was running late. And then, it was as if their lives started to intertwine. Thranduil watched Bard’s kids when he had to meet with a commissioner, Bard started giving Legolas archery tips (Bard was captain of the archery team when he was in college), Bain latched onto Legolas like he was the coolest thing since Lies Oilspill Romance, or whatever band he was obsessed about. And before Bard knew it, they were having weekly meals at each other’s houses, calling each other regularly to bitch about work and annoying people, and Thranduil started going to every one of Bard’s gallery openings, which filled him with the warm feeling of friendship (later he figured out it was a combination of bashfulness and lust).

It wasn’t until the anniversary of Sophia’s death, where both Thranduil and Legolas came with them to her grave for support and brought flowers, that Bard realized they were becoming a mashed up, wonderful and kind of chaotic family. It wasn’t until even later when Bard realized that Thranduil and him have become awkward co-parents, a series of events that included Thranduil glaring suspiciously over Bard’s shoulder when Fili picked up Sigrid for their first date, Bard lecturing Legolas when he twisted his ankle while parkouring, then Thranduil showing Bain how to properly wear eyeliner (which Bard certainly felt a burden lift from his chest at that, Bain had raccoon eyes for days before Thranduil intervened). And finally, the pieces slotting in like a puzzle when Thranduil was pushing Tilda on the swing and she started shrieking, “Higher Ada, higher!” Ada was the word Thranduil’s family used for dad.

At that point, they were only flirting occasionally, little quips about how handsome the other looked that day or quoting over dramatic sonnets at each other before breaking face and laughing. During one of their family meals, this one at Thanduil’s house, the kids demanded to make dinner by themselves. Bard and Thranduil tried to hide their smiles when they could hear them conspiring in the kitchen in sharp whispers that echoed in the large ceiling house over to the parlor room, where they demanded their dads to sit. Bard and Thranduil had a good time playing guessing games over what they were doing. Thranduil had his money on them ordering takeout and pretending that they made it themselves, and Bard bet they’d make cookies or brownies and the like and serve it for ‘dinner.’ They were both surprised when, Thranduil dragged by Bain and Bard by Tilda, they entered the dining room and it was done up like Lady and the Tramp, candlesticks in bottles and Thranduil’s pristine white tablecloth replaced with a striped one while Italian music played in the background. Bard burst out laughing when he saw Legolas, Sigrid, and Fili dressed up like waiters, but covered it with a cough when Tilda shot him an affronted glare. 

Apparently, the kids decided to band together to create their first date, which Bard thought was absolutely touching, but at the same time, was nervous about Thranduil’s reaction. They were served spaghetti and then left alone, even though they both knew the kids were probably behind the door and eavesdropping. Before long they awkwardly confessed to each other how they felt and cursed their stupidity once they realized they could have been kissing a long time ago. Thranduil playfully tried to initiate the ‘share the spaghetti strand until they meet in the middle and kiss’ thing from the movie, but they took one bite of the spaghetti and came to the conclusion that it was inedible. Half of it was burnt, and the other half was so raw it tasted like rubber. Bard tried to half heartedly point out that at least the sauce was okay, but Thranduil laughed and said heating up a can of Prego is not much of an accomplishment, even though it was a sweet gesture. They ended up throwing most of it out of the window into the bushes and then sharing chaste kisses, very aware of kids shuffling around behind the kitchen door. 

After that they both embraced the dating life, and Bard learned that Thranduil was as good as a lover as a friend. It felt amazing to have a hand to hold again, someone to laugh into open mouth, messy kisses and going on dates, or ‘adventures’ as Thranduil likes to call them. 

Sometimes it was hard, when they laid in bed, brushing shoulders with the lights off, and whispered stories about their late wives. Bard knew that part of Thranduil’s heart would always belong to Estella, as much as Thranduil knew of Bard’s love for Sophia. They took comfort in each other, Thranduil wrapping Bard in his arms when he had nightmares about the car crash, Bard wiping away Thranduil’s tears when he went though Estella’s old jewelry. 

But most of the time, it really was a new adventure for Bard. They became closer, sharing secrets and dreams. Even when they fought or snapped at each other, one of them would usually give after awhile and quit sulking/steaming to convince the other to talk, and angry silence would become apologies and forgiveness. Thranduil would usually bake one of Bard’s favorite treats as an apology, and Bard would go steal flowers from some of the neighbors’ gardens to make up. 

Dating life with Thranduil was very different from Sophia. While Bard preferred simple dates, like going to a cozy restaurant, or a movie, or picnics in the park, Thranduil’s plans varied from one crazy thing to another. Dragging Bard on roller coasters, going mountain climbing, paint ball, cave exploring, refusing to use the gps and just driving (which Thranduil thought was romantic and fate inspired, but Bard usually had to sneak google maps to make sure they didn’t die in the desert miles away from a gas station), and many more. Bard could admit that usually he had fun once Thranduil sucked him in with excitement. They took turns for date nights, Thranduil planning it one week and Bard the next.

But one of their favorite date activities that had a special place in both of their hearts was star gazing. Thranduil knew where most of the constellations were, and Bard would talk about the myths, embellishing and making up tales for stories he partially forgot. It never failed to make Thranduil laugh and call him a liar, and turned into them playfully arguing about myths and the probability of dolphins learning to time travel in ancient greek times. Bard loved cuddling with Thranduil and watching the stars, using the super soft blanket Thranduil lets no one touch until star watching nights. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

So that was why Bard was painting a night sky on Thranduil's back. The sky was a mix of a black base with deep blues and dark purple, all blending in with each other. The moon cast a gentle glow on the darkened town Bard painted on the small of Thranduil's back, taking obvious inspiration from Starry Night, Thranduil's favorite painting (even though he always claimed Bard's paintings were his favorite, Bard knew Thranduil had a soft spot for Van Gogh). He was going to use white glitter powder for the smaller stars and paint a couple of larger stars for the finishing touch. He could already hear Thranduil's complaints about how long it would take for the glitter to come out of his skin and grinned, memories of when his lover bought a glitter lush bath bomb and the glitter didn't go away for _weeks._

As Bard went over the moon again with white paint, trying to make it brighter and stand out more, his eyes followed the light blond ponytail that was precariously close to Bard's paints, back to Thranduil's head. He was dozing, his face tucked into the crook of his arm. Bard had no idea how Thranduil could sleep while someone was smearing cold paint all over his back, but Thranduil uses 12 alarms consecutively to wake up for work in the morning when they didn’t get to have an ‘adult sleepover.’ Bard, however, woke up whenever the cats meowed, which Thranduil’s cats soon took quick advantage of to make him feed them in the morning. 

Bard started absentmindedly tracing the lines for the stars he painted on already, wondering if he could connect the constellations. He could feel himself start to drift off, day dreaming about their lazy kissing session yesterday underneath the stars, Thranduil’s warm arms around his shoulders, how safe and… at home he felt even in the middle of the night. 

Bard snapped back to reality when he realized he was reaching to dab more white paint from the jar. Looking back down at the painting, he felt his jaw drop and his heart start pounding in surprise. There, lightly traced in the stars, almost too faint to see, Bard wrote M A R R Y M E ? 

Bard turned his head to Thranduil, a split second of pure panic over if he felt or somehow saw Bard tracing the letters, but his partner was still dozing, nuzzling his face deeper into his arms. He let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling the adrenaline leave his body as he set down his paintbrush. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, looking at the words and feeling warmth curl in his stomach even though Thranduil could have found out. 

Yes, Bard had been thinking a lot about asking Thranduil to marry him. He even slowed down when he was walking to the middle school to pick up Tilda because there was a Michael’s on the way, to look at the rings displayed on the windowsill. Their families fit so well together, and the idea of being able to sleep next to Thranduil every night and see each other throughout the day excites him. He’d even put up with being woken up at an ungodly hour everyday by the cats demanding him to feed them. And Thranduil wouldn’t have to use a million alarms, and Bard could make him coffee in the morning before he heads off to work, and it would just be… magical. 

But it wasn’t time for impromptu proposals, he didn’t even have a ring or a plan or anything, so he began lightly covering up the words with more blue paint, careful to blend it perfectly, as if the words were never there. 

And he did begin dreaming, about weddings and flower girls and spending the rest of his life with Thranduil, reaching for the stars as he sprinkled them on his lovers back. Some day soon, Bard promised himself, filled with hope. He could almost feel the weight of the ring on his finger already.

**Author's Note:**

> First barduil fic! Please let me know what you think! And thank you so much for every kudos and/or comment! <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed my fic, Morstan! :D
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful avuck.


End file.
